


17 Sundays

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Football, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Domestic Fluff, Football Player Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale, Hurt Derek, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Hiding from his life isn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but Derek Hale isn't known for making smart decisions. And when you're the face of an NFL franchise, there are very few places you can actually hide.But there is a quiet coffee shop with a grinning barista and absolutely no sports coverage.Stiles has no idea what he is or does--but the more time he spends in a dark bar, the more Derek is sure Stiles is the only one who knowswhohe is.





	1. Week One

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the fall and spend far too much time writing and watching football. Add in a love for coffee shops and fall, and here I am--a coffee shop & football AU literally no one asked for. 
> 
> I'll be updating every Sunday. I hope you love it. <3

_“The Timberwolves had their final preseason game today, and absent from the field is Derek Hale. Hale led the team to win the AFC Division Championship game, to be defeated in the super bowl by the Eagles, but has been seen at only one week of camp before he began skipping practice. Coach Finstock has refused all questions regarding the quarterback’s health and future with the Wolves.._

_Hale has been a cornerstone and leader for the struggling Wolves since he was drafted in 2016, and led them to a 12-5 record his rookie season, before following it up with a run for the Superbowl last season. What do you think of his absence and how will the Wolves do this season without him? Stephen A Smith is here with his take.”_

_“Look. I_ like _Hale. He’s a good quarterback--he had forty seven hundred and twelve passing yards last season. The boy is a_ great _quarterback and I like him. But he isn’t a leader. He doesn’t have a grip on the team, and the Wolves have no one besides Hale to step in. Lahey, Whitmore--they’re not good enough to lead the team, and Hale is playing least in sight.”_

_“What about the rumors he’s hurt?”_

_“So he’s hurt. He needs to put the rumors to rest. Come out and tell the public what’s going on, and when he’ll be back. But right now, everything about the Wolves is up in the air and that’s not good for a team. There’s no direction! There’s no belief! There’s no leader! Derek Hale has a job to do, and if he’s not able or willing to play--the Wolves have the backup quarterback Brett Talbot. Give him the job.”_

_“Talbot isn’t half the quaterback Hale is!”_

_“Talbot’s on the field! Hale won’t even show his face, which makes Talbot_ light years _ahead of him. Hale, you want to stay relevant? You want to keep your fifty million dollar salary? Do your job! DO. YOUR. JOB!”_

~*~

Finstock looked--well, Finstock always looked like he was one bad phone call from going off the deep end. It’s one of Derek’s favorite things about the guy. But he wasn’t usually sitting across from his desk like this, and he fights the urge to squirm as Coach paces, muttering and glaring at his phone.

Peter’s quiet at his side and Derek wants someone--literally anyone at this point--to talk.

“Coach,” he starts and Finstock points at him.

“Shut up, Hale.”

His mouth snaps shut.

“Look,” Finstock blows out a breath. “The owners want a statement.”

Derek’s stomach plunges, and he does shift now, rubs his hand anxiously down his thigh. “But--”

“Hush, nephew,” Peter says, coolly. Derek subsides, glowering.

How did he get to a point in his life where everyone told him to shut up?

“The only thing we’ve asked for is discretion.”

“I get that. Kid, I want to give you privacy. But you aren’t a third string linebacker. You’re our franchise quarterback. Everyone is talking about you and we have to say _something._ ”

He gets that.

He does.

There is no way to keep it quiet indefinitely.

“It’s going to be a circus,” he mutters, slouching further in his seat. His knee twinges, and he bites back a hiss as he stretches it out, letting the pressure ease.

Peter and Finstock watch him, intent, and he huffs. “Fine. Can we control it?”

“I will,” Peter says, sharply and Finstock slumps.

“Good,” Derek says because Peter might be a shark, but he was _Derek’s_ shark. “Then I’m going home.”

Finstock looks up, his expression a little bit shocked. “Kid, you--”

“Can’t play,” Derek says tightly. “Can’t practice. Can’t even do rehab for another month. I’m going home, Coach. If I stay here, I’m nothing but a talking point and a distraction. The team will be better without that.”

Finstock chews over that, and then nods, reluctantly. “Check in twice a week and you get your ass back here when the doc clears you for rehab.”

Derek nods, his expression tight, and stands.

“Nephew,” Peter says and he pauses. “You’ll do three interviews.”

“Peter,” he starts and Peter’s eyebrow goes up, demanding and Derek huffs. Scowls. “One.”

Peter’s smile lets him know he played right into the agent’s hands and he snarls, before he leaves.

~*~

The news breaks on Wednesday. Derek catches the news on Twitter because he can’t bring himself to turn on the TV, and thinks that’s worse.

His phone rings so often he can’t even turn it off, so he buries it between the matress in Cora’s room, and goes.

Peter will probably kill him for it, but he goes.

He wants a drink and quiet, and it’s early enough in the day he probably won’t be able to find both, but with sunglasses and a set of headphones, maybe he can wander through the mall and avoid crowds.

Most people are used to Derek Hale, sweaty and perfectly groomed stubble, black marks on his cheeks and wide grin.

Most people are used to his hair shaggy in his eyes at a press conference, and the dark edges of his tattoos peeking out of too tight t shirts.

Most people are used to the image Peter created for the star quarterback of the Wolves.

Derek Hale, neatly cut hair, dark sunglasses, shaggy beard and an over sized sweater, striding through the mall toward the bookstore--that’s nothing like the image Peter crafted. And for the first time, he’s absurdly grateful for his uncle’s foresight.

He spends an hour wandering through the bookstore, and takes a stack that’s ridiculous, even by his own standards, to the checkout.

There’s a stack of silver postcard sized cards there, and he stares at it, bemused, as the girl rings up his purchases and bags them.

 

_Cuppa Magic_

_Cafe & Bar _

 

_Read, Relax, and Get Drunk._

_Daily Specials Featured._

 

He taps the cards and says, “What is this?”

“Oh!” The girl, a pretty dark haired girl with a tag that says Caitlin, perks up. “It’s a new coffee shop.”

“And bar?”

She nods and grins. “And bar. You should check it out, you’d like it.”

He thinks about it, consideringly. Every bar he knows will have a TV blaring ESPN and this….this sounds different.

“Do they play sports channels?” he asks, abruptly.

Caitlin giggles and hands him his bag. “No, dude. Try it. You’ll like it, I promise.”

He isn’t sure he believes her, but the urge to drink and hide somewhere sports wouldn’t intrude was too alluring.

He nods his thanks as he goes.

~*~

Cuppa Magic is a tiny bar tucked between a tattoo parlor and a craft store in downtown Beacon Hills.

He eyes it for a long moment, before he shrugs and selects one of his books and heads inside. For a moment, he wishes he had a hat to tug lower on his head, but then he steps inside and the urge fades.

Caitlin was right.

He loves it.

The whole place is dim and soothing, quiet instrumental playing low enough to set the mood without being intrusive. A dark bar stretches to his right, lined with shiny bottles and a truly impressive coffee maker. A display case holds a modest array of cookies and muffins and a few sandwiches that makes his mouth water.

But the truly enticing thing is that there are couches and chairs, mismatched and plush, tucked against the walls and pushed into corners, haphazard in front of overflowing bookshelves.

It’s like a bar and a bookstore had a baby with a pastry inclined aesthetic and this was result.

And there wasn’t a TV in sight.

“Oh, fuck, you’re here. There’s someone here,” a high voice says, and he tenses. “Shit, shit shit.”

Derek’s shoulders draw up to his ears and he takes a step back before the voice yelps and says, “No! Stay! We’re here, we’re open, I’m so sorry!”

Oh. _Oh._ Derek slowly relaxes, his shoulders dropping as he tilts his head at the boy--man--standing behind the counter.

He didn’t recognize _Derek._ He just recognized a customer. And apparently panicked.

“You’re ok,” Derek says, softly and the man blinks at him, startled.

Derek edges closer to the bar and runs his finger over the rounded edge. There’s a bowl of peanuts and pretzels and he’s delighted to find them dusted with cinnamon sugar when he steals one.

“I saw your card at the bookstore,” Derek offers and the boy brightens.

“Oh man, that is so great! I told Alli they’d work.” He drops a basket of cookies and a few bottles of syrup and Derek catches one as it rolls towards him, righting it. “Sorry,” the boy says, sheepishly. “I’m still trying to get my shit together.”

Derek understands that so wholeheartedly he almost reaches out to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically.

Instead he shrugs and says, “I’m not in a rush.”

“Still,” he says, determined, and grins. “What can I get you?”

“What’s good?”

The boy--and he really needs to stop thinking about him like that, this isn’t a boy, not if the broad shoulders and surprisingly thick forearms, the plush bitten lips had anything to say in the matter. “You sticking around?”

“If that’s alright,” Derek answers, a little bewildered, and the other man waves. “Go sit. I’ll bring it right out. Anything to eat?”

He orders a caprese panini and a pumpkin roll, and then retreats while the barista makes his drink.

He settles himself in a corner near the back, with lamp for reading and a conveniently placed table for his drink. He’s just gotten comfortable in the black overstuffed chair when the barista wanders up with his food and a drink that smells amazing.

“I know there’s the whole pumpkin craze because its fall, and I love me some pumpkin, but I thought you’d like something a little--spicier,” the other man babbles as he puts the food and drink down. “But you can tell me if you hate it.”

Derek takes a cautious sip and make a pleased noise in the back of his throat. It’s creamy hot chocolate but there’s a familiar bite to it. “Fireball?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

The barista shrugs, a flush in his cheeks. “Like it?”

Derek takes another sip and hums, appreciatively. “It’ll do.”

The guy snorts, and stumbles back a few steps. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll check on you a bit, but if you need anything, just yell for me.”

He doesn’t need anything. He won’t need anything.

But the boy is pale and pretty and he’s flushed and eager to please and doesn’t seem to have a clue who the hell Derek is.

“I don’t know your name,” Derek says, “I can’t shout.”

The guy pauses and grins. “I’m Stiles." He hesitates, a second, and then, the question he knew was coming.

Of course it was coming. They were two people alone in a fucking bar and this kid seemed to have no boundaries. And for some reason--Derek didn’t mind.

“What’s your name?”


	2. Week Two

 

_In the first week of training camp, Derek Hale aggravated an injury sustained in the Super Bowl against the Eagles. Although Hale was assessed after the Super Bowl, he was deemed healthy enough to avoid surgery and spent the off season recovering._

_The new injury has resulted in a torn ACL and Hale will be out for the duration of the season._

_The Wolves are eager for Hale’s return, and will be monitoring his recovery, post surgery. In the meantime, we have full confidence in backup quarterback Brett Talbot’s ability to lead the team._

_(Statement issued by Coach Bobby Finstock)_

 

_I am deeply saddened that I will not be medically cleared to play this season. I injured my knee during a tackle during the Super Bowl, and while we monitored the injury, both myself and my medical team believed me healthy and fit for the season._

_Unfortunately, that is not the case._

_I have the highest of hopes for the Wolves this season, and look forward to returning when medically sound._

_(Statement posted by Derek Hale on Twitter @DerekHale00)_

 

 

~*~

 

When he was in high school, all Stiles wanted to do was get the fuck out of Beacon Hills.

He wanted to go as far as possible as fast as possible.

He had big plans and all of them were too big for this tiny town and he _knew_ he’d get out.

And then--life happened.

Allison Argent moved to town and twisted Scott up into something Stiles barely recognized and some days--back in the early days--he hated her for it.

Then her mother shot herself and Allison dropped Scott, dropped everything, got sucked into grief and rage so deep and consuming it almost killed her. And Stiles was the one that pulled her back and she clung to him, like a girl drowning and he let her.

Dad got kidnapped and came back alive, but _changed_ and Stiles wasn’t sure how to leave when his dad was so broken.

So he didn’t.

He stayed and sometimes, when he and Alli were high and sitting on the roof, staring at the impossibly big sky and the tiny town didn’t feel like it was suffocating him--he whispered dreams.

They hatched the coffee bar there, a dream that was big, maybe too big for Beacon Hills, but attainable, and theirs.

 

~*~

 

The thing about owning a coffee _bar_ is that you stay open late--because you’re a bar.

The thing about owning a _coffee_ bar is that you open early--because coffee.

He’s yawning as he unlocks the doors on Sunday morning, and stumbles in, flicking on the lights. Liam is running late, but stumbles in after five minutes, breathing apologies as he disappears into the back.

Stiles considers saying something, but he needs more coffee first and frankly, no one is here.

Sure, they get a rush before church services on Sunday, and a few large orders, but the real business comes after services let out and this evening, when people trickle in for that last drink before the work week.

He turns on the speaker and lets the Chainsmokers fill up the cafe until they open, bouncing around happily shaking his ass while he turns on machines and brings scones and pannies and cookies to the display case.

Between him and Liam, they’re ready and open by seven thirty, and he smiles through the rush of order pickups, busying himself with ringing up coffee. By nine, they’ve slowed down enough that Stiles can think about making his own coffee, and since he can smell fresh bread in the air, he goes ahead and makes Liam some as well, putting the iced drink on the counter for Liam before wandering back to the bar and poking at the mulled cider he started the night before.

He frowns after sampling it, and adds a splash of vanilla.

“I thought we agreed not to try anything new this week,” Allison says, and he turns with a grin, watching her wheel John in.

“I don’t remember agreeing to any such thing,” he says, sniffing. Allison glares but it’s more fond than anything--he knows she doesn’t really care what he experiments with.

Stiles keeps one eye on Allison as she situates John and then dusts her hands, coming to join Stiles behind the bar. He leans into her hug for a moment and then pushes her chai at her and picks up his coffee.

“You got this for a few minutes?”

She nods, and Stiles drops a kiss on her forehead before he goes to sit with his dad.

“You don’t have to keep me company,” John grumbles, and Stiles shrugs.

He doesn’t have to. He knows that. But he passes his dad the newspaper, and nods at the decaf he left next to his dad before dragging out his phone.

“What are you researching now?” John asks, shaking the paper open.

“New pumpkin muffins. I’m not crazy about what we’re doing.”

“I love those muffins,” John protests and Stiles gives him a narrow eyed glare.

“ _You_ ,” Stiles pronounces, “aren’t supposed to be having muffins.”

John rolls his eyes, but reads his paper, quietly.

Stiles can’t stop himself from looking at the door, though.

It’s been a week since Derek came in, quiet and shy behind his hat, with his thick book and soft beard and wide eyes.

“You’re doing it again,” John mutters and Stiles flushes, glaring at his phone. “Gonna tell me who has you so distracted?”

“Definitely not,” Stiles says, and John snorts.

 

~*~

 

He’s behind the bar and the place is quiet--there’s a couple having lunch in the corner, but the rush is long over, and Allison is taking John home. He can hear Liam and Mason goofing off in the back and it makes his heart squeeze, a bolt of longing going through him.

He closes his eyes, breathing through the sharp shock of pain, and the bell chimes above the door, a welcome intrusion because he doesn’t want to think right now.

He fixes a bright smile on his face and opens his eyes.

Shit.

He didn’t think Derek would be back. Even knowing that Derek _said_ he’d be back, he didn’t really think he would be.

But here he is is, a beanie tugged down over his hair, in a thick sweater, worn jeans, and a pair of heavy boots.

Stiles grins, his mood immediately brightening. “You!”

Derek looks a little spooked by his enthusiasm, and takes a step back, almost like he’s going to bolt. Forcing his smile to stay steady, he says, “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“I--I like it. The food is good,” Derek says gruffly and Stiles beams.

“Dude, thanks! I came up with the recipes--well, my partner Allison and I did.”

Something flickers in Derek’s pale eyes, but he nods, and takes a careful step toward the bar. Stiles pushes himself upright and taps a finger on the daily special chalkboard. “You can’t go wrong with any of this,” he says, “But I have it on good authority we’ve got a new kind of pumpkin muffins, if you want to try those.”

Derek studies the little board intently and then flicks a glance at Stiles through his lashes, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat.

Jesus, he’s pretty.

“Ok,” Derek says, shyly. “And something to drink?”

Stiles smiles, and nods. “Want me to surprise you again?”

Derek’s ears go a little pink, which is _adorable,_ but he nods and Stiles hums under his breath. “Go sit down, get comfortable. I'll bring it out in a  few minutes.”

Derek gives him a tiny smile, and slips away. It takes a beat too long for Stiles to shake himself into motion, ducking into the kitchen to prep a grilled ham and cheese and a cup of thick potato cheese chowder.

“Hey!” Mason yelps, when he steals one of the new muffins. “Those aren’t ready.”

“It’s for Derek,” he mutters, and Liam’s eyebrows shoot up.

He _might_ have babbled about the pretty man with the shy smile and the big book.

A lot.

He might have babbled a lot.

“He came back?” Liam squeals.

Stiles hauls his baker back by his apron strings as he darts toward the doors, “Shut _up,”_ he hisses. “We’re not advertising my idiotic crush, dumbass!”

Liam huffs, whispering to Mason while Stiles dithers over the plate.

“Dude. Are you gonna take it to him?” Mason asks, voice pitched low and soothing.

“ _Yes!”_ he snaps, stung and Mason gaze is soft and sympathetic. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

He nods, a smile twisting up his lips.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters and grabs the food, marching out determinedly.

Derek is tucked into Stiles’ favorite corner, a book held loose in one hand as Stiles places the food down for him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and Stiles feels his heart melting.

“One sec, lemme get your drink.”

He fumbles it a little, putting it down, and Derek’s big hand comes out to steady the drink, and he huffs a laugh. “Thanks. And. Um. Thanks, for coming back.”

Derek shrugs, looking bashful and flustered. “It’s nice. Quiet. I’ve never seen a bar like this.”

Stiles perks up because Cuppa is his favorite thing to talk about. “I know, right! Most bars are loud and blaring dance music or sports and what about the introverts? Where the hell are they supposed to go for a beer and no human interaction? It’s a gap in the market, my man.”

Derek is staring at him, bemused and Stiles realizes abruptly that he’s babbling.

“So you decided to fill the gap and then chat up your customer base?” Derek says, something warm in his tone and it takes Stiles a second to realize--he’s teasing.

Stiles grins and shrugs. “Only on slow days,” he says, nonchalantly.

Derek snorts, and shifts in his seat and Stiles catches sight of the book in his hand.

“Oh, man--that’s gonna be a classic, in a few years.”

Derek perks up. “You’ve read it?”

Stiles nods, eagerly. “She’s a genius. I really love her world building and just, the way she spins out a story is amazing. I read her Inheritance Trilogy first, and if you haven’t, dude, you _need_ to.”

Derek’s eyes brighten and he lurches a little in his seat as he leans forward--”What did you think of the third book?”

Stiles huffs and settles into his seat.

 

~*~

 

Derek, Stiles decides, after getting the man his third cider and finally getting himself a latte, is a dork.

A dork in sweaters that looks like a fucking god, but a dork nonetheless.

They argue about books for almost an hour, while Derek picks at his food, and then he listens while Stiles rambles about Cuppa, how it grew from the love of food and books and bars into something that bound all of those loves into some strange conglomeration. Derek talks about his love of books, how it was his uncle and mother who taught him the power of stories, how he works sometimes, pushing himself too long and late to listen to the end of an audiobook, and how no one really understands it at work, except maybe Boyd.

They talk about Marvel, and DC, and why DC was set up to fail even before the first movie came out. They talk about the changing seasons and the soup Allison is insisting Stiles try this week and gender politics.

Derek doesn’t ask him why he’s opened a place like Cuppa in a city like Beacon Hills, and he doesn’t ask about Allison when she comes in and leans over Stiles with a coffee and a, “He’s settled for the night.”

Stiles doesn’t ask about the brace on his leg, and the phone that keeps going off on the table, that Derek deliberately ignores.

It’s nice.

Too nice, if Stiles is honest, after Derek finally leaves, around six. He’d flushed, and stammered over his words, before slipping away, glancing back at Stiles as the bar started to fill with people looking for a drink before the weekend ended.

“You like him,” Allison says, making an appletini.

Stiles thinks about denying it. He thinks about the excitement in Derek’s voice while they talked, and the way his big hands were always steady on his drink, and the warmth in his eyes as he listened to Stiles babble.

And he nods, a smile playing on his lips. “I think I do.”

 


	3. Week Three

 

_ "The Timberwolves have opened the season two and one. How do we feel about the Wolves chances at a playoff run, given the season ending injury sustained by quarterback Derek Hale?"  _

 

**_Caller One_ ** _ : The Wolves are gonna go five and twelve. They can't get in the endzone without Hale. The season was over the day Hale got hurt.  _

**_Caller Two_ ** _ : I think they can win. Hale has been overrated since he played at UCLA. Did you see the way that Talbot played against the Falcons? The kid is gonna take Hale's job.  _

**_Caller Three_ ** _ : Is there any chance that Hale will come back before the end of the season? I know he's injured, but it seems like sitting out the entire season is a little excessive.  _

**_Caller Four_ ** _ : The Wolves won't do well this season because there's no leadership. Hale was the de facto leader of the team and he isn't even showing up for practice? I get you're hurt, but that's some shitty behavior--being part of a team means supporting them even when you can't be in the limelight and throwing passes.  _

**_Caller Five_ ** _ : They had a great year last season, but I think we've seen the Wolves' last howl. Without Hale, the team is going to fall apart, and with the way he's acting--or not, in this case--coming back isn't going to do shit. His team has no reason to believe in him.  _

 

~*~ 

 

Cuppa Magic is quiet when he slips in on Thursday. A young black man is behind the counter, so pretty it's almost offensive, and he grins at Derek as he takes his order. 

"Where--is, um. Is Stiles not here today?" 

The boy barely looks at him. "He's got an appointment with his dad on Thursday morning. He'll be in later. Did you need something?" 

Derek flushes and steps back. "No. Just curious. Um. Thanks." 

He hurries to his corner, settling in his chair with his plain coffee. It's different, today--not quite unwelcoming, but there's a something  _ off _ about the whole shop, a quiet, less welcoming air that makes him itchy under his skin. 

He sips his coffee and stares, sightless, at his book, and waits impatiently for his uncle to arrive. 

Stiles blows in before Peter, and Derek stirs in his chair, wanting to hide from him even as he wants to sit up and catch the other man's eyes. 

He doesn't understand why he likes Stiles so much. But he knows that something loosens in his chest when Stiles catches sight of him, a grin spreading across his lips. 

"You don't come in on Thursdays," Stiles says, fondly. 

Derek shrugged. "I wanted to get lunch," he says, and waves at his plate. 

Stiles makes a face at what he's seeing and grabs his plate. "I've got something better. Do you need a refill?" 

"Maybe not yet?" Derek murmurs and Stiles nods, scurrying away. 

And Derek relaxes a little. The other barista has vanished, and Stiles is grinning at him when he comes back, a plate of pirogies and a small bowl of thick chili on his tray. 

"There. Tell me what you think?" 

Derek takes a bite and moans a little, his eyes fluttering closed as the garlicy potatoes explode on his tongue. 

When he looks, Stiles is staring his eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "It's--uh. It's really good," Derek says, and Stiles swallows. 

"Good. Um. That's good." 

The door to the cafe clatters, and Derek's heart sinks as Peter steps in, adjusting his overcoat. He gives the place a long, assessing look and Derek nods at his uncle. "Can I get an Americano for him?"

Stiles glances back and he nods, backing away as Peter sweeps closer, his expression doing something complicated. 

"Nephew," Peter says, and Stiles’ steps stumble for a moment, "this is where you're hiding."

He’s looking around, blatant interest on his face, and Derek forces himself to remain still, to not defend Cuppa. 

It won’t do any good to make Peter think he cares about it. Even if he does, so much it startles him. 

“Why meet here?” Peter asks, sitting in the chair across from Derek. 

“Because I don’t like you going to my place,” Derek says. “I can never get you to leave.”

“That’s almost offensive,” Peter sniffs.

Derek grins. “Only almost? I have to try harder.”  

Stiles approaches with his Americano and Peter’s gaze skims over him, predatory and too interested and Derek kicks him, giving him a warning look. 

Peter huffs a sigh and takes his coffee in silence, sipping it and making a startled noise. 

“It’s good, right? I’m not just here for the books,” Derek says, feeling vindictively pleased. 

“Why are you here?” Peter asks, and Derek stills, his coffee halfway to his lips. “I not complaining, Derek. But I am asking for an explanation. I can’t protect you if you only give me half the information.” 

“There’s nothing to explain. Did you forget the injury?” 

“Oh no, I know exactly what the party line is. But I don’t know why you felt the need to run from the team and your life.” 

“I just needed some space.” He blows out a breath. “I didn’t want the media circus, Peter. I just wanted to play.” 

“You don’t get to do that at this level without the baggage, kid. You know that.” 

He does. He just doesn’t like it. 

“Is this where you tell me to come home?” 

“As your uncle? No. Stay if it makes you happy. God knows you deserve that.” 

“As my agent?” Derek asks.

Peter frowns, thoughtful. “As your agent--you need to use this. Right now, the only narrative is the one the public and sports newscasters are giving. You need to control the story.” 

“You want me to do an interview.” 

“I want you to let me do my job--and that does mean interviews, yes.” Peter says, leaning forward and staring at him intently.

“What does that even mean, do your job?” 

Peter is quiet for a long moment, and Derek pales, dizzy with it as he lurches in his seat. “Are you fucking  _ serious?”  _

“I am serious about keeping your goddamn contract, Derek. Do you know how replaceable you are? Talbot is gunning for your job and I know you don’t like watching tape, but the kid is good.” 

“Better than me?” 

“Of course not. I taught you,” Peter says, dismissively. “But it doesn’t matter because Talbot is who they see on the field, the one that is winning games for them.” 

“So you want me to out myself so that I stay relevant?” Derek demands, incredulous.

“You  _ want _ to come out,” Peter snaps. 

“On my terms,” Derek says, exasperated. “Not because I might get traded.” 

Peter glares, and Derek shakes his head. “Find another way, Uncle. I’m not doing it that way.” 

“Fine,” Peter says, sharply. “Then we’ll do Reyes in the Morning. Monday. Understood?” 

Derek grit his teeth and Peter shifts, his expression stony. “Fine,” he allows and Peter gives him a rare approving smile.

“Now,” he says, a purr in his voice. “Tell me about your delightful little cafe.” 

 

~*~

 

Peter lingers. It makes Derek twitchy, the way his uncle sprawls in a chair, reading on his phone, studiously ignoring him. 

He adores Peter, truly, but sometimes he  wants to throttle the older man for his incessant teasing. And this--the way he’s so smugly ignoring Derek--is almost worse. 

Stiles keeps eyeing them, and Derek is torn between wanting the barista close and chattering the way he so often does, and wanting him as far from Peter as possible. 

On his fourth glance at the counter--Stiles is bent over his phone, his tongue caught between his teeth--Peter finally says, “I see what has you so enamored of this particular bar, nephew.” 

Derek flushes, and scowls at his book. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Derek mumbles. 

Peter straightens up and his smile is predatory and makes Derek shift anxiously. "In that case," he purrs, standing and slinking up to the counter. Stiles blinks at him, his big eyes wide and a little spooked, but he smiles gamely, and Derek can hear him rattling off drink options, and the current deserts. 

They have a pumpkin roll. His mouth waters and he scowls--he wants a damn pumpkin roll. 

"And what about what's not on the menu, dear boy?" Peter purrs, leering. 

"Ok, that's enough," Derek calls. "Peter, leave the kid alone." 

"Nephew, I don't know if you've noticed, but this is hardly a  _ kid _ ," Peter protests, and Stiles' cheeks go a delicious shade of red. 

He's noticed. He's noticed a lot. He thinks he's seen Stiles noticing him back. It doesn't matter. Not right now. He stands and moves to the counter, and arches an eyebrow. "Leave him alone," he says, patiently and Peter laughs, the smarmy seducer dropping away. 

"Stiles, can my reprobate uncle get a coffee for the road?" 

"Yeah," Stiles says, faintly, and he very deliberately doesn't look at the barista as he makes the coffee, keeps his gaze locked on Peter. 

"I'll be in town Sunday night, unless we're doing it here." 

Peter snorts, like Derek is insane, which--fair. Still, doesn't hurt to hope. 

The cup lands between them, along with a little brown paper bag and Derek slips some cash across the counter to Stiles. "Go, or you'll be caught in rush hour, Peter." 

He smirks and waves a teasing goodbye to Stiles. "I'll call you tomorrow, discuss particulars." 

Then he's gone and Derek let's out a relieved breath. It takes him a long minute before he risks looking at Stiles, though. 

He's staring at Derek with a bemused smile. "Your uncle is creepy, dude." 

"Don't call me dude," Derek says automatically and Stiles' smirk grows. "He's--harmless?" 

Stiles laughs, and Derek flushes. "He just worries about me. He's protective." 

The barista stills and looks at him, his head cocked and his eyes gleaming and bright. "Do you need to be protected from me, Derek?" 

Derek doesn't know how to answer that. 

He wants to say yes. 

He wants to lean across the counter and kiss the hell out of Stiles, bite those plush red lips. 

He wants to drag him home and *ruin him. 

He swallows hard, and Stiles' eyes follow the movement. 

"Derek?" he murmurs, and he's drifted closer, braced against the counter, tilting toward Derek. 

He can smell pumpkin and coffee and the bitter cut of alcohol and Stiles, warm and minty. 

"You could be," Derek murmurs and Stiles smiles, sly and bright and achingly beautiful. 

He leans closer and--

The door jingles open and a rush of crisp air chases the pretty burnette inside and Stiles jerks upright, a wide happy smile on his face. "Alli-cat!" 

And Derek takes two large steps back, his stomach churning. His face and ears are burning and he avoids looking at Allison as he stumbles toward the door. 

Stiles shouts his name before he burst outside, but he doesn't stop, doesn't turn back. 

He forgot. 

For one minute, he fucking forgot about  _ Allison _ , about the girl Stiles loves and he--

He wants to throw up. He swore he'd never be the one to ruin someone's relationship, not after--

His phone is in his hand and he's dialing before he can talk himself out of it. "Hey, Coach. It's Hale. Uh. Could I be on the sidelines on Sunday?" 

He listens to his coach rambling on in that insane, familiar way and he let's the panic wash away, and he very resoutely doesn't think about a beautiful barista with plush red lips. 

  
  



	4. Week Four

**_“Welcome to the show, everyone tuning in. First up, Reyes in the Morning is joined by Derek Hale of the Timberwolves. Derek, you’ve been a hard man to get ahold of, since training camp.”_ **

_ “I have. Did you miss me?”  _

**_“I think the Wolves have. The team played better with you on the sideline than they have all season. Is that something we can expect again?”_ **

_ “Maybe. I guess we’ll see? I don’t want to detract from the team and what they’re doing.”  _

**_“A lot of people think your absence is more of a detraction.”_ **

_ “Maybe? I have to do what the Coach and I think is best for the team.”  _

_ “ _ **_How ‘bout you, Derek, how are you doing?”_ **

_ “The team doctors are very happy with my progress.”  _

**_“That is what we keep hearing. Are you gonna stick to the party line, or are you going to tell us something we actually want to know?”_ **

_ “What exactly do you want to know, Erica?”  _

**_“What do you think about Brett Talbott gunning for your job? What do you think of the popular opinion that he’s better than you?”_ **

_ “I think Talbott is a good quarterback. I trust Coach to get us where we need to go, with whoever needs to lead us.”  _

_ “ _ **_So tell me, big guy, what do you think of Talbott’s recent tweet, saying he’s got the starting spot on lock and you’re washed up?”_ **

 

~*~

 

“Stiles, is it?” 

Stiles straightens and gives an automatic smile that dims a little as he sees Peter. 

Derek’s uncle Peter. He of the too nice coat and the smarmy smile and the eyes that were a little too sharp. Stiles feels strangely exposed standing in front of him and he shifts a little. “Yeah. Um. I’m Stiles? What can I do for you?” 

“Have you by chance seen my nephew?” 

“Uh? No?” Stiles frowns. He hasn’t seen Derek since last week, when he’d been so damn sure Derek was going to kiss him before he bolted away, rushing past Allison so fast it knocked her into Stiles a little. “I’m not sure what you think is happening, but I’m just a bartender, dude. I don’t know anything about the guy except he has a sweet tooth.” 

Peter’s eyes narrow and his expression goes speculative. “Interesting. Derek doesn’t usually let people know that.” 

Stiles shrugs. “Bartender, dude. We get told weird shit.” 

“And what do you do with that ‘weird shit’?” Peter asks, silkily, his expression somehow menacing, and Stiles stares at him, bemused. 

“Most of the time I forget it. Derek has good taste in books and doesn’t mind being the kitchen guinea pig--he sticks out.” 

“Because...you feed him,” Peter says, faintly, and then a wide smile turns up his lips. “You are an interesting creature, aren’t you?” 

“Uh-huh. And you’re weirding me out, man. Did you want to order?” 

Peter smiles. “A large Americano. And one of those muffins, to go.” 

Stiles salutes sloppily and gets busy making the order, ignoring Peter watching him until he’s finished and can’t ignore him any longer. Then he gives Peter an expectant look with his drink and paper bag. 

“If you do see my nephew, maybe don’t mention me. He gets protective of things he sees as his.” 

Stiles blinks. There is nothing about that that makes any sense. “Dude, I don’t care about your weird family drama.” 

Peter smirks and murmurs, “You don’t, do you. Interesting.” 

Without another cryptic comment, Peter turns on his heel and leaves, and Stiles stares after him, baffled and a little annoyed. 

“What did he want?” Allison says, pushing out of the kitchen with a tray of paninis for lunch. There’s a harvest squash soup and chili simmering in large pots behind the bar, and the weather turning chilly beyond their doors. 

It’s his favorite time of year, and he wants to curl up in his favorite oversized sweater with a mug of cider and a new book. 

“Derek. I don’t know--he’s weird.” 

“Derek? Your stubbly usual?” she asks, grinning at him as she puts the tray in the display case. 

“Not  _ mine _ ,” Stiles grumbles, and Allison snorts, an unladylike noise that has him glaring at her. 

“Not yet,” is all she says, and she cackles as he swats at her with his bar rag, chasing her back into the kitchen. 

 

~*~

 

By Saturday, he’s beginning to think Derek won’t be back. The way he left last Thursday--the way he’d been leaning into Stiles, gaze flickering from Stiles’ mouth to eyes and back again--and then he’d bolted. 

Stiles hasn’t dated a lot, and since the funeral, he hasn’t even bothered with casual hookups. But he knew what interest looked like, and Derek? Derek was interested. 

He just wasn’t sure why the hell Derek  _ ran _ like that. 

He’s talked it over with Allison and his dad, hell even Mason weighed in--Liam didn't because Liam made a face like he’d seen his parents having sex every time Stiles talked about dating, and Stiles could only handle that face so many times before it lost it’s hilarity and just got annoying. 

“Maybe he’s in the closet,” Mason said, and that’s one thing Stiles doesn’t want to think about. Closeted boys was not something Stiles wanted to get involved with.

It doesn’t  _ really _ matter. Derek ran, and whatever Stiles thought he saw, or felt--it didn’t matter because Derek left. And he didn’t look like he was coming back.

 

~*~

 

Stiles is in the kitchen, when Liam shouts his name. It’s late enough on Saturday, that the kitchen is closed and the bar is picking up that quiet buzzy after dinner date crowd. Liam and Mason are good at that clientele and Stiles likes hiding in the kitchen, working on the menu for the week. 

“Stiles,” Liam shouts again, a bit sharper, and Stiles huffs, straightening and stalking into the bar. 

Derek is standing there, in tight jeans and a cable knit sweater that’s too big on him, his hair messy and eyes hopeful behind his glasses. 

He looks exhausted, and gorgeous. Stiles stares at him for a long minute, and then turns and pushes back into the bar, shouting behind him, “Come on.” 

Derek is quiet, entering the kitchen, and his gaze skitters around the room, taking it in, a tiny curl of a smile on the edge of his lips. He looks everywhere but Stiles, until he finally does, focusing on him with careful consideration. “Wasn’t sure you’d be back, after last week,” Stiles says, picking up his spiked cider. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to come back,” Derek says, and Stiles frowns. “I don’t mean--I’m sorry. If I upset your partner, or you.” 

“Allison?” Stiles says, blankly, and then--

Oh. 

“Allison--she wasn’t upset, Derek. Neither of us were.” 

He fidgets, eyes wide and unsure and Stiles sighs. He reaches for the recipe box, and tugs out his mom’s chocolate peanut butter cookies. Then he turns and extends it to Derek. “We need to talk. And I talk best when I’m busy. Do you want to help me?” 

Derek nods and Stiles lets out a slow breath. 

 

~*~

 

He’s aware of the bar, getting a little buiser, beyond his tiny kitchen but as Stiles lines up the ingredients, and Derek carefully measures things out and stirs with a concentration that is so intense it’s adorable, Stiles thinks the rest of the world doesn’t actually matter. 

He’s in his kitchen with a beautiful man, baking cookies. 

Sometimes, the weird turns his life has taken startles even him. 

“Allison is my business partner,” Stiles says, softly, leading with what he thinks is the most important thing to clarify. “She’s my best friend and helps me out, a lot. But we’re not together.” 

He chances a glance at Derek while he scrapes peanut butter into a measuring cup, and sees the soft flush in his cheeks, the bright hope in his eyes, and he takes a slow breath. 

He wants, badly, to turn and draw Derek down, into a kiss. 

To not talk about all the things he knows he needs to say. 

He dumps the peanut butter into the dry ingredients, adds the milk and eggs and the vanilla, before he turns the industrial grade mixer on and lets it go to work. Derek steals some of the chocolate chips and asks, “Are you dating anyone?” 

“Nope,” Stiles says, dumping the chocolate in and watching it churn. It’s only when the mixing is done and he’s got the mixing bowl on the counter, scooping out cookies onto the oversized cookie sheets, that he takes a deep breath and says, “Allison was engaged to my best friend,” Stile says. “And he died. Two and a half years ago.” 

Derek makes a noise, a hurt noise, and his hand comes up to touch Stiles’ shoulder, not really anything except a faint reminder that Derek is  _ there. _

“Scott and I grew up together. He was the only one who stuck around after my mom died, and I was the one who protected him from bullies and we just--we were brothers. And then in high school, Allison showed up and she  _ fit _ , you know? A piece of our puzzle we didn’t know was missing. She was perfect for him. They were crazy in love,” he takes a slow breath, because it hurts. Two and a half years later and it still fucking  _ hurts _ to talk about Scott. He grits his teeth and pushes on. “After--after he died, Allison kinda lost it. We both did. And we clung to each other because there was no one else who got it. My boyfriend at the time left me about six months after Scott died--we were both a mess, and I think he just couldn’t deal anymore.” 

“Asshole,” Derek grumbles, stealing some cookie dough. 

Stiles snorts, and nods, shoving the cookies into the oven and setting a timer. “He was,” Stiles agrees. “But when he was gone, I was able to focus. On my Dad and Allison, and myself. And it--It wasn’t  _ good _ , but it helped. I don’t hate him.” 

“Did it help? Focusing?” 

Stiles nods. “Yeah. It helped keep me sane, honestly.” He scrubs his hands over his apron and studies Derek. He know Lydia would tell him to drop it, to flirt, to play it cool--but he’s never been good at any of those things, so why the hell not. 

“Derek, look--my life is a mess. I’m stupidly codependent on Allison, my dad is in a wheelchair and I take care of him, I run a business that takes up too much time. I’m neurotic and get angry and forget things like eating. I’m not--I like you. A lot. But I’m not a good person to date.” 

Derek is staring at him, and his eyes are warm and hungry, and amused. Stiles doesn’t understand it, completely, but he thinks that maybe this talk to run Derek off didn’t succeed. 

“Everyone comes with baggage,” Derek says gently. “Yours doesn’t sound so bad.” 

Stiles cocks his head and stares at him, and Derek moves slowly across the kitchen, to stand in front of Stiles. “I like you,” he admits, softly, his voice almost breathless, “And I want to keep--I want to get to know you. Is that ok?” 

Stiles nods and Derek smiles at him, shy and small and pleased. 

Derek leans down, slowly enough that Stiles can pull back, if he wants. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to pull away. 

The kiss is gentle, a brush of dry lips that’s soft and sweet and makes his heart pound with potential. It's over too soon and Stiles chokes off the wounded noise that wants to slip free, and Derek presses back in for a quick kiss, nipping at his lower lip as he pulls back. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes, and Derek grins at him, blushing and pleased.   

 


	5. Week Five

 

_@DerekHale00 you’re sinking the team, Hale, you self absorbed dick. Get your ass on the field._

 

_@WolvesNFL are a fucking joke. They lose one goddamn player and can’t win against the Browns. The BROWNS. The Falcons can win against the fucking Browns._

 

_Can we trade @DerekHale00? Why the hell are the @WolvesNFL paying him if he can’t produce?_

 

_Look, @DerekHale00 is injured, you dumb fucks. You want to blame someone for the team falling apart and not winning shit, blame @thatCrazyCoach or @BtheManTalbot_

 

_Someone needs to replace @IsaacLahey. Boy couldn’t kick it through the upright if a gun was to his head._

 

_Any chance the @Wolves NFL are going to win again at all this season? Because this shit is getting depressing._

 

~*~

 

“Are you coming back to Portland?”

Derek closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back on the back of his couch. “I don’t want to,” he mutters.

Peter sighs. He’s sitting on the couch, watching his nephew with quiet, patient eyes and in moments like this, Derek is reminded of his uncle. Not Peter, the smart savy agent who was too damaged to play, but the uncle who taught him how to play, his best friend and closest confidant, the one he ran to when his parents got too much to handle.

He misses that, sometimes, and moments like this, when Peter is quiet and sits on his couch in dirty jeans and an old v-neck, he thinks maybe that isn’t gone completely. Maybe it’s just hiding under the layer needs to protect them.

“How long do you want to do this?” Peter asks. “How long before you can face your life?”

“Until I can play,” Derek says. “I can’t--if I go back, they focus on my injury, on what I can’t do. I can’t do that. You know what they’re like, Peter.”

Peter huffs, grumpily.

He does. Of course, he knows.

“I can’t guarantee what you’ll come back to, Derek. You understand that, right?”

“Nothing is guaranteed. You always told me that, right, Uncle?”

Peter watches him, and there’s sadness in his eyes. Sadness and acceptance. “Right.”

“Stay for a few days?”

Peter nods. “Ok.”

Derek smiles and closes his eyes.

 

~*~  

 

Allison is behind the bar when Derek enters Cuppa Magic, wiping it down with practiced ease, and talking to an older man. Her gaze flicks to Derek, and the smile cools, just a little, just enough for him to notice.

He wonders what Stiles has told her about him. What this girl that Stiles considers essential to himself thinks of him.

“You don’t usually come in on Wednesdays,” Allison says, as he approaches the bar. Derek shrugs. “He isn’t here. He needs one day off.”

“That’s ok,” Derek says, squashing his disappointment as much as he can and Allison’s lips purse, curve into a smile that’s reluctant. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to eat,” she says. Derek hesitates as she vanishes into the back and the man at the bar breathes a laugh.

“You should listen. It’s easier if you just do what she wants,” he says.

“Voice of experience?” Derek asks, sliding onto the stool and leaning forward, waiting for the drink and food.

That gets him a snort, and a nod. “The most experience--I’m Chris Argent, Allison’s father.”

“Are you being nice, Dad?” Allison asks, a smile in  her voice, as she returns. She slides a plate across the bar--a plate of fresh baked pretzel bites, shiny with butter and salt, surrounding a bowl of thick cheese. She draws a beer from tap and sets it down. “Because if you scare him off, _you_ get to explain it to Stiles.”

Derek flushes and Chris’ expression goes a little more speculative and considering and she clears her throat, giving him a sake of the head that Derek chooses to ignore.

It’s only when Chris is gone that Derek gives her searching eyes.

“He’s happy, with you,” Allison says, softly, answering the question he can’t voice. “And you’re new, you have--you weren’t there for it, when we lost Scott. You’ve only seen Stiles that puts on a happy  face for the bar. He wants you to know more--because you make him happy. I’m not going to do anything to stop that, to get in your way.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, softly and Allison snorts.

“I’m not doing it for you, Derek. I’m doing it for my best friend. Keep that in mind when you’re with him. The people who are good to you? We don’t know you. We don’t like you because you’re _you._ We like you because you make him happy. And if that changes? If you’re the reason my best friend cries himself to sleep? I’ll put aconite in your beer and serve it with a smile.” She smiles, a bright, sweet sincere thing that makes him want to curl up and hide.

“Glad we understand each other,” she says, patting his cheek.

 

~*~

 

Allison leaves him to his own devices, and Derek retreats with his beer to his corner to read. It’s peaceful and even knowing Stiles won’t be in to make him smile, he’s comfortable here.

Which is why it’s startling when he blinks and finds a petite redhead sitting across from him. She balances a giant cup of coffee in her hand, and her eyes are narrow and assessing.

“Allison says you’re the one who caught Stiles eye.”

Derek blinks.

“She says you’re sweet. Quiet bookworm who make Stiles smile. She _likes_ you, and Allison doesn’t _like_ people.”

“Um. I’m sorry?”

She smiles, and it’s sharp, bitingly sharp.

“Do you know, when Scott was alive--Stiles and Scott watched football all the time.”

Derek freezes and her eyes narrow in triumph. “Stiles loved it. He watched college more than the pros, said there was something more genuine about college. And, three years ago, the Wolves were the worst thing in the NFL.”

Derek bites his tongue, and her smile goes predatory. “What you don’t know about him--because Stiles doesn’t tell people this--is that after Scott died, he didn’t turn another football game on. Not ever. He doesn’t watch sports, doesn’t listen to it on the radio. Even the Sheriff stopped listening to baseball games in the car, because Stiles can’t tolerate it. It’s too much of what he shared with Scott--Scott was the wannabe athlete and Stiles was the one who was _good_ , dragged into it because it made his best friend smile.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Derek asks, closing his book. He can feel Allison’s concerned stare, but she’s not his concern right now.

The dangerous girl smiling serenely at him--she’s the problem.

“Because you are here, in his bar and you want to be in his bed and he has no idea what you are.”

“I’m a guy who likes a drink and a book,” Derek says, evenly and she snorts.

“Don’t lie to me, Hale,” she says, sharply and Derek inhales. “I’m not Stiles. I’m not living under a rock. I _know_ who you are and why the hell you’re wearing that brace.”

Derek’s fingers find it, hidden under the denim of his jeans and he swallows.

“Are you going to tell him?”

She shakes her head. “No. I love Stiles--he’s one of my best friends. But that’s not what he needs.”

“What do you think he needs,” Derek asks carefully and she smiles, sharply.

“He needs _you_ to tell him.”

Derek stares at her, his expression set into something cold and she huffs. “Do you know who I am?”

“A friend of his.”

“I’m Lydia Martin. I’m the girl Stiles thought he was in love with, most of our childhood. I’m the girl who challenged that impossibly large brain of his--Stiles doesn’t know _yet_ that something is different about you, Derek, but he’s not stupid. He’ll figure it out. Don’t let him. Trust him.”

“You get why I haven’t, right? I’m--it’s not a normal situation.”

“No. It’s not. But lying is not what you need to start with. Especially because it’s not a normal situation. You’ve got enough working against you--don’t add to that.”

She leans back, settling deeper into the chair and tucking her legs under her as she sips her coffee and reads. When she makes an impatient noise a flicks an irritated glare at him, Derek huffs and goes back to his own book, his mind racing.

 

~*~

 

“Heard you met Lydia,” Stiles says, when Derek approaches the bar on Saturday. He swallows and nods, wondering if Lydia said anything to him.

She said she wouldn’t--but then, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t.

“Sorry. She’s protective,” Stiles says, making a face. “Especially after Theo--they all tend to hover over me and any guy I might like.”

Derek smirks as Stiles’ eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in a distractedly wet circle. “Shit,” he hisses.”Sorry--”

“Why?” Derek murmurs. “I’m not.”

Stiles eyes him, curious and hopeful and Derek leans across the bar. “I like that they felt it was necessary to warn me about hurting you,” Derek confesses.

“Why?” Stiles breathes and it’s a struggle not to lean across the tiny space and claim his lips again. Peter would have a fucking fit if Derek were caught kissing someone, though. He reins it in, settles on his side of the bar and crooks a grin, a little bashful.

“Because it means _I_ mean something.”

Whiskey warm eyes soften and he nods. “Of course you do, Der. You--I thought you knew that.”

He did--or maybe he only hoped, until Lydia’s words.

Maybe that’s why they bothered him so much. If he didn’t matter to Stiles, being honest with him wouldn’t matter.

“I wanna take you out,” Derek says abruptly, and Stiles eyes go wide and his smile goes soft and happy. “When--if you want.”

Stiles nods, so hard and fast he looks like a bobble head and Derek grins at him. “I want,” he blurts out, and Derek grins.

“Good. Um. Wednesday? Allison mentioned you have it off?”

Stiles nods and Derek picks up his bag. Stiles hesitates with his coffee for a moment, and then slides it across the counter. “I’ll see you Wednesday,” he murmurs and Derek backs away before he can say or do anything he can’t take back.

He’s half in his truck when he sees Stiles scrawl on his cup, seven numbers and a tiny _S._

He grins, all the way home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting this on a mini hiatus until I finish another WIP. I'm sorry--it isn't abandoned, I just need to scale back a bit due to real world commitments, and one of the WIPs has to take a break. I'll resume this in Dec or Jan. <3


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